Clouded
by blackrising
Summary: Pride is everything for a Parkinson. And you refuse to give that up for anything - or anyone. ONE-SHOT, PANSY/LUNA - FEMSLASH


Title: **Clouds In Your Eyes**

Pairing: Pansy/Luna

Rating: R

Word Count: ~1500

Warnings: angst (Probably. Maybe. I think?)

A/N: I swear, this was not supposed to get so cheesy towards the end. 

You are a Parkinson.

Pride is everything to you.

And if there is one thing a Parkinson can never accept, it is indifference. People may love you or they may hate you, they might even avoid or ignore you, but they can _never _be indifferent to you.

There is no space in your family's credo for weakness or sympathy.

And you refuse to give up the beliefs that have been hammered into your brain since early childhood for anything – or anyone.

HPHPHPHPHP

The first time you look her in the eyes is in a secluded hallway somewhere on the third floor, during lunch when nobody is supposed to wander the halls. You look up from the parchment in your hands when a soft, lilting voice reaches your ears.

"You shouldn't go that way."

You frown (because, really, isn't it obvious that you are busy?) and lock gazes with the girl standing just a few feet away from you. The first thing you notice is the colour of her eyes. They are a shade of blue you have never seen before, with clouds swirling just beneath the surface.

You know the girl. Everybody does.

"I think Kritternips have infested the floor further down the hall."

You say something scathing in response, because you instinctively despise (don't know how to react to) her, and resume walking down the hall.

You clench your fist at the memory of the moony smile on her face that didn't even waver in the face of your loathing.

HPHPHPHPHPHP

The next time you see her in the halls you purposely bump into her, rudely telling her off when she simply looks at you with cloudy, unaffected eyes.

HPHPHPHPHPHP

You and some of your housemates (dumb, obedient pawns) corner her sometime later.

She doesn't flinch when they grab her bag and empty the contents all over the floor, laughing and pointing at the colourful accumulation of useless trinkets. She doesn't defend herself when you take her wand and she doesn't utter a word of protest when you and your friends (servants) bespell every single one of her items.

She bends down and picks up her things one by one.

You watch as her hands blister and sizzle and expect her to shake, cry, get mad…_anything._

She doesn't.

You feel a needy, suffocating pressure begin to form in your chest when she looks at you with those unbearably empty, indifferent eyes of hers before walking away.

HPHPHPHPHP

You bump into her again, as you have done so many times before.

But this time, it really is an accident, caused by your inattentiveness and her usual dreamy oscitancy.

This time, you don't 'accidently' drive your elbow into her rips, but accidently brush her breast underneath the disorderly white shirt with your hand.

You don't give her another subtle push to see her tumble to the floor.

Instead you steady her with a firm grip on her waist, your fingers sprawled over the sliver of skin where her shirt has ridden up.

You don't see it's _her_ until you look up into eyes that have become frighteningly familiar. (Watching. Always watching.)

Your mouth opens to tell her to get off and stop clinging to you (your grip on her hip tightens), but you can't.

Because this is the first time the clouds in her eyes lift for the shortest of moments, emotions you (can't) don't care to identify shining through.

You shudder and let go of her, as if burned.

Her bright blue gaze follows you down the corridor and deep into the night, where you lie awake, your hands itching to choke this new light out of her eyes while something else in you, something you can't (don't want to) name, craves another taste of it.

HPHPHPHPHP

You think this might be some sort of addiction.

There is no other way to explain why you can't stop this game you're playing. (It is no game.)

You run into her even more frequently than usual. By now you can't even tell anymore if it's you, her or both of you who initiate the contact, but you know that it has become something you're not sure you have control over.

Your hand touches her stomach. Her back. Her chest. Your arm wraps around her waist unter the pretense of holding her up.

It's always short, fleeting touches. Touches that would look innocent to any bystander, but become so much more whenever you look into her eyes and see the clouds drifting away.

But like any addiction, it gets worse.

Your craving, your hunger, grows with every gaze, every touch. You know that (knew it from the beginning), and yet you are surprised when you find yourself grabbing her wrist and shoving her into a dark and empty classroom, locking it with a flick of your wrist.

She blinks at you with something akin to surprise and it thrills you. For a moment, you think to yourself that this has gotten out of control. That this obsession you have is not healthy.

That it's not normal to press a girl you despise against a cold stone wall with a knee wedged between her thighs and her wrists pinned above her head.

But then you're kissing her and she makes a small noise in the back of her throat that means she's _here_, completely here and not a thousand miles away in a world of Nargles and Kritternips and all sorts of useless, colourful trinkets you could never hope to understand.

She kisses back and you hesitate for a moment.

Where your kisses are fast and posessive, hers are lazy, fresh and soft in a way that would make you feel guilty if you weren't so far gone.

Where you bite hard enough leave a mark, she licks and nibbles and soothes.

But when you press closer to her, pushing her skirt up with your leg, and rock into her once, twice, she gasps and digs her fingers into your back. You hiss at the pain, but don't stop moving.

You suck at her lower lip before breaking away. You want (need) to look into her eyes, to see the attention in them.

Because that's what you have been craving from her all along.

_Attention._

The rapt and utter attention you have only gotten a glimpse of until now.

You want her to _see, _not stare through you like she does with everyone else.

Your hands find her backside and you squeeze, rubbing against her harder and faster in response to the movements of her hips and the small, breathy moans escaping her throat.

You bite her hard just above her collarbone, marking her as used (as yours). When her hips start to jerk uncontrollably against your thigh, you look up into her eyes.

Not a single cloud.

Only blue and a hint of grey and everything that lay beneath. Her whole focus is on you, on your face and what you are doing to her right now. You shudder and buck harder in response.

And then she's coming, her fingers desperately clutching at your back, her legs shaking from the strain of standing up and her eyes drifting shut.

HPHPHPHP

You don't watch her anymore.

You don't acknowledge her when she walks past your seat at dinner or crosses your path in the library.

You avoid touching her in overcrowded hallways t all costs. You make sure that your housemates (dumb, obedient cowards) know that she is off-limits in order to cut her out of your life in any way possible (to protect her).

Only once do you look into her eyes after what happened.

In the remote hallway somewhere on the third floor where you have first laid eyes on her, your eyes meet.

You half expect her to warn you that there are Kritternips ahead, but she doesn't.

Her eyes show no indifference. You are the center of her attention and she focuses only on you. Not a single cloud obscures the bright blue sky.

But the light is gone.

She doesn't cry. She doesn't scream or frown or make any kind of scene. She is her usual dreamy self, in her own little world for anyone who doesn't care to look closer.

The gaze she directs at you is desperately, painfully lucid. She's _here _and you tear her apart with your mere presence, with every day you don't care, with every day of _indifference._

And she accepts it.

You can deal with anger. You can even deal with sadness and desperation. What makes you flee from her gaze is the acceptance. You feel like she _knows. _Knows why you have to do this. Maybe even knew all along how this would end.

With a broken heart and one that could never be allowed to exist at all.

HPHPHPHP

You are a Parkinson.

Pride should be everything to you.

There is no space in your family's credo for weakness or sympathy.

And you can't give up the beliefs that have been hammered into your brain since early childhood.

Not even for soft, lazy kisses and bright eyes the colour of a cloudless sky.

The End


End file.
